Spellfire

The Company of the Bright Spear were six in number. The tall warrior Burlane bore the magical Bright Spear and led the company. A younger bladesman rode with him, the merry Ferostil. Delg, the dwarf, was also a warrior. His constant companion was the bard Rymel, probably the brightest of them all. The wizard Thail deferred to his younger, louder companions. Last and least of the company was the thief, one Shandril, a bright-eyed, soft-spoken waif in ill-fitting old breeches and a much-patched tunic.

They had nearly slain her when she had appeared with their missing gear, which she had slipped away and stolen while the ladies Storm and Sharantyr were facing down the company in the taproom. After their rage had subsided (under Rymel's laughter), only Delg had protested against her joining, but the fighter-with the same avid look in his eyes that Korvan got-was enthusiastic. So far, however, Ferostil had not bothered her.

Shandril had slipped out of the inn that same night to wait for the company in the trees on the edge of Deepingdale, leaving only a hastily scribbled note for Gorstag. She had spent anxious hours in the dark with small forest creatures rustling and scuttling unseen around her, afraid that the company would change their minds and ride off without her. Shandril's heart had leaped when they had come into view through the dawn mists, leading Lynxal's empty horse for her. She had trembled so with excitement that she could hardly speak, but she had gotten into the saddle somehow, though she had never before ridden a horse. She was relieved to discover the dead thief's weapons and gear strapped securely to the saddle, though she had no idea how to use them either. She would just have to learn… and fast!

She'd taken nothing from the inn but the clothes she wore, and the single nice gown that had been made for her. Robbing Gorstag seemed a poor way to repay him for his kindness, and Shandril was not a thief at heart.

She wondered that night if she'd be any good at thievery, with the company's eyes on her in judgment. Her arms shrieked stiffly from gripping at reins and saddlehorn. Her legs ached even worse. Places on her thighs had been rubbed raw, and when it rained and cold, lashing winds blew at the same time, Shandril wondered why she'd ever left the safe, warm household of The Rising Moon.

The next morning, her heart light and free, she knew why she'd left. All around her lay the green gloom of deep woods, where men said only elves had walked scant summers ago. Everywhere she looked she saw new, wondrous things. When Burlane had changed their course after a discussion in which Rymel and Thail spoke most, Shandril had been thrilled at the simple freedom of choice.

There was another reason she'd left to start a new life. For the first time in her life, she had friends around her. Oh, Gorstag and Lureene had been her friends, but they were always busy, always rushing off to do something that did not involve her. But now she had friends who rode with her and would fight with her and were there all the time. Hunger for freedom and friendship had pushed her to take that extra step, to steal up to the long room and knock on the door to face the Company of the Bright Spear. Even in the taproom, when it might have meant gruff old Ghondarrath's death and they had been loud and mocking, even then it had thrilled her: the belonging, the trust.

One of their number had been endangered. As one, they sprang to aid him, daring all, heedless of rules or cost. Above all in the world they were companions, and each one raised his blade to defend the others, no matter how weak. That's what she was, the weakest of the company, the one with the least experience and with no magical weapons or magery to boast of. She was not even truly a thief. The weakest of the company, indeed.

But she was of the company, a full and proper member who darned her socks with the rest of them by the fire the next night in wild country and washed herself, fully clad, in an icy stream, as they did in the gray, misty morn that followed. Shandril had given up on her snarled, greasy hair, pulling it back into a simple tail with a broken strap of Delg's. Even if she was the only female and jests were often hurled her way as she scrambled, red-faced, out of the deep brush after relieving herself, she belonged. They were her companions, her family, and she would die for them.

The company had left Deepingdale and promptly turned north into the woods, heading for Lake Sember. From old records in Suzail, the wizard Thail had learned that the elves had lived on the shores of the Sember in great numbers for two thousand years or more. Even if nothing of value had been left behind, Lake Sember lay along their path to Myth Drannor, and scouting it would serve them as practice for when they reached the ruined city. The company had come upon good trails in the woods, and for days they had ridden steadily north. Game was plentiful. The forest was never quiet around them, but neither did they see men or other large, dangerous creatures. At last the trees thinned ahead, and they looked out over Lake Sember.

The waters of Lake Sember were deep blue and very still. Clouds scudding overhead were mirrored in the lake at their feet; by the shore, the water seemed as clear as crystal. Beneath it they could see the bottom of the lake falling away, a drowned tree's limbs long, dark, and silent, and the scuttling of a tiny crayfish bound for deeper waters.

The company fell silent as they looked upon Lake Sember. They all knew now why it had been so special to the elves. Far away down the long lake, a great gray heron rose from the near shore and winged silently across the lake. They watched in silence. The heron vanished into the trees.

The air had grown cooler, and Shandril shivered. Tall Burlane looked up abruptly and said, "We must move east. I hope to make camp where the Semberflow leaves the lake tonight. Let us go."

The company turned east along the shore, weaving in and out around the trees, but keeping the water always in view. It would not do to get lost and stray south again now. Mist began to gather in white curls along the water's edge as the air grew colder. Wisps drifted in under the trees, and the sky fell to silver-gray. Burlane hurried them on. Shandril found a cloak in the saddlebags and thankfully drew it on over her chilled arms and shoulders.

Somewhere ahead, a bird called amid the trees. The call did not echo, but faded away. Glancing around in the gathering darkness, Shandril noticed that Ferostil had quietly drawn his sword. The trees grew dense and the footing uneven, so they continued on foot.

"Sharp watch," Burlane commanded quietly. Blades were drawn all around him. Shandril drew her own slim long-sword and clutched it firmly. Made for her predecessor, Lynxal, it was just a trifle too heavy. She felt no safer. The mist closed in around them.

Suddenly there came a high, weird, unearthly call, as if from a great distance. The horses snuffled and shifted uneasily. Looking at her companions, Shandril could see that they were puzzled by the sound as well. She was not the only frightened one, either.

By unspoken agreement, the Company of the Bright Spear waited in tense silence, but the call was not repeated. Shandril breathed a silent prayer for the kindness of Tymora, Goddess of Good Fortune. Finally Burlane ordered the advance again with a silent jerk of his head. Glad to be moving, they all shifted damp grips on weapons and reins and led the horses on through the thick white wall of mist.

"We should tarry until this mist passes," Rymel said, his bard's voice and gray eyes serious for the first time in Shandril's memory. Tiny droplets of mist hung in the curls of his short beard.

"Aye," Ferostil replied, his voice low and wary. "And yet-that cry we heard. If we wait, who knows what might hunt us? Surround and entrap us, and we not able to even see them until too late?"

His words left a deafening silence. Shandril met Burlane's eyes, trying to look calm. A trace of a smile crossed his lips as they traded glances, but his calmness was an act too. Shandril felt grateful, and suddenly she was less afraid.

Delg the dwarf spoke. "I second that. I cannot abide waiting a whole night through in this damp, doing nothing. I say push on, and we'll be the sooner out of it!" The light was growing dim. One of the horses snorted and shifted again, and Delg went to it and spoke soothingly.

"What say you, Thail?" Burlane asked quietly.

"It would be more prudent to stop and wait for morning and the lifting of this mist," the wizard replied calmly. "But I, too, would hate such waiting."

"Shandril?" Burlane asked in the same voice, and Shandril looked up in surprise, thrilled to be considered an equal.

"I'd rather risk stumbling into danger than waiting the night," she answered as calmly and steadily as she could. She heard several vigorous murmurs of agreement.

Burlane said simply, "We go on. Better to be all awake and expecting the worst than to be all asleep but two."

Suddenly, they heard a soft slithering sound, then a loud "plop," as something entered the lake nearby. Shandril's skin crawled. But the company could see nothing. Cautious minutes later they moved on, and soon they came to a place where the long grass was flattened in a wide swath as if by the passage of some great bulk, and flecked with trails of green-white slime. The horses shied from the area and had to be pulled across, snorting and rolling their eyes and lifting their feet as though surrounded by coiling snakes. The company hastened on as quickly and quietly as possible. Later they heard something scuttle away from their path, but again met no creature. They went on as night drew down.

At length, the sounds of wide waters moving before them could be heard, and Thail, probing with his staff, barred their way. "Open water," he said in a low voice.

"Either we have turned about and headed into the lake," said Rymel, "or the shore has doubled back before us, or-and this seems most likely-we have reached the Semberflow, where you intended to camp," he said to Burlane. In the twilit gloom they heard their leader reply, "Aye, it is likely. I will look."

Pale light flared as he unwrapped the Bright Spear and bore it past them. The bard went with him, passing the reins of his horse wordlessly into Shandril's hands. She clung to two sets of reins in anxious silence, pleased to be so entrusted, and yet apprehensive. If something startled the horses, she knew she lacked the strength to hold them.

The two were a long time looking, and even Thail had begun to step about anxiously before the Bright Spear's radiance could be seen again in the thick violet and gray mist that enshrouded them. Burlane stepped back among them, looking pleased.

"It is the Semberflow," he announced. "We camp here. We cannot see to cross."

"A fire? Lanterns?" asked Delg. Burlane shook his head. "We dare not. Double watch the night through-Shandril and Delg, then Ferostil and Rymel, and I'll see the dawn. Make no needless noise. Don't let the horses lie down-it's too damp, and they'll take the chill."

The band quickly unburdened and fed the horses, shared cold bread and cheese, and rolled themselves in cloaks and blankets. Shandril found Delg in the darkness. "How can I keep watch if I can't see?" she whispered. Delg grunted. "We sit down in the middle of everything, ladymaid. Back to back, d'you see? We give each other a pinch or an elbow now and then to keep awake. Three such, or more, quickly, means: beware, there's danger. You look, yes, but mostly you keep still and listen. Mist does funny things to sounds-you can never trust just where and how far away something you hear is-but listen hard to us and the horses first, mind you, and get to know the sounds, and then listen for sounds that aren't us."

Shandril stared at his red, gnarled face for a moment. "All right," she said, drawing her blade. "Here?"

The dwarf, already sitting on his cloak with legs outstretched, the axe in his lap warded from the dew with a fold of his cloak, rumbled affirmatively. Shandril sat down against his rounded, hard back, feeling the cold touch of his mail, and laid her own blade across her knees. She said no more, and around them the camp settled down into steady breathing, muffled snores, and the occasional faint, heavy thud of a shifting hoof. Shandril peered into the night, blinking dry eyes.

A long while passed in silence. Shandril felt a yawn coming. She tried to stifle it, and failing, tried to yawn in utter silence, but she felt the firm pressure of Delg's axe-butt driving against her flank immediately. Grinning in the darkness, she elbowed him back and was rewarded with a gentle squeeze of her elbow.

Shandril could visualize his stubby, iron-strong fingers pressing on the point of her elbow, and was reassured by the veteran's presence. His eyesight was far better than hers in the near-darkness, she knew, and she trusted his years of calm experience. What seemed like hours later, he squeezed her elbow gently again; she extended it in firm reply, grinned again, and so they passed the night.

Suddenly Delg shifted. "Sleep now," he said into her ear. "I'll wake Rymel and Ferostil." Shandril nodded automatically. The gruff warrior clasped her shoulder and was gone. Sleep now? she thought. Just like that? What if I can't?

Shandril rolled over, pulling her cloak up, and stared into the dank darkness. Where were they? How would she know which way to walk if she awoke and her companions were all gone? Suddenly she felt lonely and very homesick. Shandril felt the sting of tears, but she bit her lip fiercely. No! This was her decision, for the first time-and it was right! She settled her head on her pack and thought of riches and fame… and if not, an inn of her own, perhaps?

A gentle hand on her shoulder shook her slowly but insistently awake. Shandril blinked blearily up at Rymel. The bard smiled a wordless greeting and was gone. Shandril sat up in the dripping grass and looked around. The world was still thick, white, and impenetrable. She could see her companions as gray, moving shadows, and a larger bulk that must be one of the horses, but little else. By all the gods, was there no end to this mist?

The patient, gray-white cloak of vapor stayed with them as the Company of the Bright Spear followed the Semberflow's banks away from the unseen lake until Thail recognized a certain moss-covered stump and directed them to cross. The wizard stepped down into the dark river confidently, the water swirling around his ankles and then rising to near his bootstops. Rymel followed, just as matter-of-factly, leading his horse. But Shandril noticed that he kept his blade ready in his other hand and looked at the waters steadily and narrowly. Ferostil followed, and then Burlane waved Shandril to go next.

The water was icy. Shandril's boots leaked at one heel, and once she stepped into a deep place hidden under the water and nearly fell. Her firm grip on the reins saved her; her horse snorted his displeasure as all her weight pulled at his head for an instant, and then she recovered herself and went on.

The far bank seemed no different from the one they had left-tall, drenched grass, mist as thick as ever. The company gathered wordlessly to rub the legs of their mounts dry and peer about. The mist brightened still more as the unseen sun rose higher, but it did not break or thin. Burlane strode ahead a few paces and listened intently.

Then, quite suddenly, three warriors in chain mail advanced out of the fog with weapons ready. They bore no badge or colors, and behind them a fourth man led a mule. The mule was heavily laden with small chests securely strapped to a harness. Something metallic within the chests clinked and shifted at the beast's every step.

There was an instant of surprise, and then the three strangers rushed forward with an oath, springing to attack the company without so much as a greeting. The fourth turned from the mule to flee back into the mist.

Abruptly, Burlane's glowing spear hurtled through the air to pierce the runner at the back of the neck and bear him down. "At them!" the burly leader hissed. "Look sharp!"

Ferostil pushed roughly past Shandril to take a stranger's blade on his own, shove hard to rock the man back on his heels, and then, by a rapid succession of ringing, teeth-jarring blows, batter his way past the man's blade. The two men seemed evenly matched in strength. Shandril was shocked at the savagery of their hacking blows.

Even as she watched, Delg trotted past her and calmly launched himself into the air with a grunt. At the height of his leap, he cut hard at the side of the man's helm with his axe. There was a dull crump sound as the blade bit home, and the warrior reeled, then tumbled to the ground. Delg had already reached the next warrior, a burly man who raised his voice to roar a warning into the mist as he fell back before the blades of Rymel and Ferostil.

Shandril heard Burlane grunt in pain as the third warrior's blade bit into his shoulder. The man also swung a war-hammer, but the wizard Thail caught it on his staff before their attacker could drive it through Burlane's guard.

Shandril let go the reins of her mount and ran toward the Bright Spear, which flickered and glowed in a tangle of grass near the man Burlane had hit. She heard a strangled cry behind her but dared not look as she rushed over the uneven ground. Metal skirled and clashed again behind her. As Shandril reached the spear, she saw menacing shapes looming out of the mist. More warriors! She had no time to look down at its victim or behind her, for one of the newcomers was snarling at her, eyes glittering, a longsword reaching for her as he charged.

She saw the angry face of a second attacker before she could jerk the spear free and run, ducking low and turning, trailing the spear point down in the grass. The closest warrior's swing clove the air, and she was away, stumbling in her haste. Delg grinned at her as he rushed past to meet the newcomers. Beyond him, Shandril could see the company advancing. All of their opponents had fallen.

She looked to Burlane, raising the spear, but he shook his head, clutching his shoulder. "I cannot use it. Wield it well! More come!" Turning again, Shandril saw Ferostil and Delg closing with five warriors. Beyond, more newcomers loomed out of the mist, weapons gleaming.

The company was overmatched. Shandril hurried to Burlane's side, to guard his injured flank with the spear. It felt awkward in her hands, and he'd be close enough to shout directions for its use to her, if nothing else.

From Thail's hands burst three bolts of light, streaking through the air to strike at three foes. One stiffened and fell; another staggered but came grimly on. The third gasped and then roared a warning back into the mist, in a harsh, hissing tongue Shandril did not understand.

Then a warrior was rushing at her again. He had burst past or cut his way through the company's warriors and was closing quickly, a great sword clutched two-handed above his head. Shandril saw with sick fascination that its edge was dark with blood. It came toward her so smoothly, so quickly, swinging down, down-and then Burlane shoved her roughly from behind.

Shandril fell helplessly forward, dropping the spear as she crashed into the man's legs. He toppled and came down hard on her shoulder.

Red pain exploded in Shandril's arm as she fought for breath. She sobbed and then rolled desperately away. Her shoulder burned. The arm below felt numb. Shandril came dizzily to one knee in the grass and saw Delg calmly hew another foe down into the grass a little distance away. She turned wildly and saw Buriane regarding her gravely across the body of the warrior she had faced. He had tripped over her or gotten tangled with her and the spear long enough for Burlane to cut his throat.

The Bright Spear blazed in Burlane's grasp. He held it out to her. "Never freeze in a fight," was all he said. As he raised his head to look past her, Shandril noticed the white line of an old scar on his neck that she had not seen before.

The mist had lifted enough to reveal, trampled in the grass, the still bodies of fallen enemy warriors. Before them stood the company's warriors, leaning on their weapons and panting. Thail looked worried as he turned to Burlane.

"Perhaps I can use the art to drive some of them to slumber," he said, "but too many remain-far too many."

Shandril knew he was right. The strangers had drawn back from the company's blades to gather their strength and attack as one. Shandril counted nearly twenty men, clad in leathers or chain mail. None bore any sigil or blazon; all were armed. They seemed to be led by a stout warrior who wore a dark helm. At his gesture, his men had spread out in a long crescent, curving around the company, advancing slowly to either side.

Shandril turned to Burlane to warn him to pull back, to run now, but as her eyes saw his face-calm and bleak and a little sad-the cry died on her lips. Where was there to run to? She turned back to look at their foes. So many, so intent on her death. Beyond their grim, slowly advancing line, more men held the reins of a score of mules, all laden as the first one had been. There was no escape. Shandril, her shoulder throbbing, gripped the Bright Spear firmly, determined to please the war god Tempus even if Tymora, the Lady of Luck, had turned her face from them. She should never have left Gorstag and The Rising Moon… But she had, and she was going to see this through. She hoped she would not run.

"Clanggedin!" Delg roared hoarsely, as if to the ground at his feet. He flung down his axe. "Battle-Father, let this be a good fight!" He drew the warhammer at his belt and brought it down hard on the axe with a ringing sound-a sound that thrummed and echoed around them before rolling away. To Shandril's amazement, Delg began to sing. The axe at his feet glowed and shimmered and then lifted slowly into the air before him.

The whole company and their foes alike stood amazed. Delg, his weathered face wet with tears and his voice cracking as he sang on, extended one stubby hand and the axe rose into it, winking with a light that had not been there before. Delg seemed to grow and straighten. His beard jutted defiantly, and the warhammer he held began to glow faintly. Its radiance pulsed and grew as he sang, until it matched the sheen of the axe in his other hand.

The dwarf stepped forward, then, singing old ballads in his rough voice. Pride and awe and gratitude rang in his songs as Ferostil and Rymel stepped forward to join him.

Shandril looked to Burlane and whispered, "Does he do this every time? I mean-" She stopped, embarrassed at the twinkle in his eye. Suddenly, Burlane roared his laughter aloud and clasped her to him, and she felt foolishly happy. Ah, but if one is to die, she heard the voice of an old wandering priest of Tempus who sometimes stopped at the inn, it is best to die in a good cause, fighting shoulder to shoulder with good friends.

That thought brought a sudden chill, and Shandril raised the Bright Spear's glowing point before her and tensed. Across the trampled grass, the enemy warriors exchanged a few barked commands and replies and began to trot forward, blades raised to slay. Delg sang on.

The gleam of the dwarfs weapons grew dazzling and then died away suddenly as the mist parted.

In the sudden morning light there was movement. Between the two warring bands walked two newcomers. One was tall and handsome, clad in forest green. A great sword was scabbarded at his hip, and a gray hawk rode on his shoulder. He strode easily, obviously slowing his stride to match that of his companion.

The companion was an old and long-bearded man whose eyes shone with keen intelligence and good humor. He wore plain brown robes with a tattered gray half-cloak, and the stains of spilled food and wine were dry but copious down his front. He spoke to his companion in a voice of aged, crotchety distinction, and, as the two stepped nearer, Shandril could make out the words.

"… Silverspear distinctly told me, Florin, that if there were elves left to meet us anywhere in the Elven Court, they would meet us here, and I've never known elves…"

His companion had noticed the two groups of combatants in the mist. Darting swift glances about, he made to draw his sword. But the old man beside him walked on.

"… to be untrustworthy, or forgetful, mark ye. Never. I doubt overmuch that they've been either this time, say others what they may. Five hundred winters have I known them, and…"

The tall warrior plucked gently at his companion's shoulder. "Ah, Elminster…" he ventured, hand on his hilt, eyeing the score of charging warriors on their left and the waiting six on their right. "Elminster!"

"… though that be but a short time to an elf, it is long enough for these eyes and ears to take the measure of-eh? Aye then, what?" Irritated, the old man peered about, following the warrior's swift pointing finger to right and left.

He peered at the Bright Spear in Shandril's hands and then seemed to pause and nod as he saw Delg. He stopped and nodded to his right. The warrior the old man had called Florin obediently turned toward the company, half-drawing his blade. It glowed with its own blue-white light. He did no more, but stood watchfully, wary eyes raking them all. Shandril thought that here was a man other men would follow to the death and obey with loving loyalty. The company stood unmoving.

The mage called Elminster was chanting as he drew two items too small to be seen from his robes and brought them together, his hands moving with a curious, gentle grace. Abruptly, he drew his hands apart violently. Light pulsed between them, and the items were gone. Elminster faced the charging warriors, flung his hands wide, and spoke a last quiet word.

The warriors came to a halt just short of the old mage, blades flashing; then they wavered and backed away. Trotting awkwardly as they turned and roared their bafflement, they gathered speed. In wonder, Shandril watched mules, warriors, and all charge away as fast as they could, crying out in rage and frustration and brandishing their weapons. The mist swallowed them long before their cries died away.

The old mage walked on unconcernedly. The kingly warrior paused a moment, looking after the warriors Elminster had repelled, and then strode suddenly on to catch up with his friend, casting a last long look at the company. Shandril noticed that the green eyes of the hawk on his shoulder had never left them. Elminster looked again at the Bright Spear, made a "move away" gesture with the backs of his fingers at the company, and strode on into the mist.

"Now, as I was saying, she said I was to expect them on the banks of the Sember, and I've never known Silverspear to speak falsely. There's many a time…"

As the mists swallowed them both, the tall warrior cast his calm gaze at them once more, and Shandril could have sworn that he winked.

The company stood a moment in shocked silence, and then Burlane dragged Shandril with him to where the others stood. "Come on!" he hissed, "Delg! Enough! Clanggedin has heard! Let us go, before they return!"

"Who was that?"

"Go? Where?"

"Aye, while we can!"

"Did you see that? A wondrous thing!"

" Later! " Burlane said sharply, and the company fell silent. "Thank you, Delg. Let us not waste the good fortune Clanggedin has given us! Delg, check the bodies! Thail and Rymer, collect the horses! Be back here before I count six. Then we flee!"

"What? Af-"

"Later," Burlane said, and they went. No coins were to be found on the bodies, however, and the weapons did not measure up to their own. A few extra daggers and one good pair of not overlarge boots was their booty.

Burlane had sheathed the Bright Spear's glowing blade while the others searched. He and Shandril bound Ferostil's shoulder with strips of cloth. Rymel and Thail arrived back in haste with the horses, which had not strayed far.

Burlane pointed ahead and to the right. "We go this way," he said. "Quick and-at all costs-quiet. They'll expect us to flee. Men so strong in numbers and so quick to slay will not expect us to pursue them." He strode forward.

"What?" Ferostil hissed angrily. "Slink away with nothing to show for it? There was coin on that mule, maybe on all of them! Wha-"

"Later," said Burlane again, almost mildly, but Ferostil flinched as if a sword had struck him. "I've no wish to let slip treasure, nor let pass those who draw our blood without so much as a greeting. Our skulker can trail them. We'll follow and strike when death is not such a close and certain answer." He smiled down at Shandril as they pressed on over the grass. "Ho, little skulker. A task for you… most dangerous. Will you?"

Faces turned to her, curious, waiting, as they walked. Shandril flushed, then heeded the smile and ignored the danger warning to reply firmly, "Yes. Tell me what and how, and I will do it."

"Well said," Burlane said with a grim smile. "It is a simple thing, and yet it will be difficult in this mist. Hide-belly down was Lynxal's usual way-and lie near where we fought. Not close to the bodies, mind-they'll check those. Keep close and quiet. Follow us this way only if they haven't come back before you get hungry. I think they'll be back soon, and expecting us.

"You follow them, without being seen. Come back to us if they camp or night falls, or they go where you cannot follow. We will try to keep near, but I can promise nothing in this mist. No fighting, mind-just eyes and ears. Understood?"

Shandril's nod brought another pain-twisted smile to his face. "Good, then, enough talk. Pass me your reins, and wait here. May Tymora and He Who Watches over the Shoulder of Thieves smile upon you." Burlane did not name the god Mask. To any who did not worship the patron of thieves, the utterance of the god's name brought ill luck.

Shandril shivered a little at the thought of what the evil god's aid might be, as she watched the company hasten on until the mist swallowed them all. Better to trust in Tymora, Lady Luck, capricious though her luck might be. Suddenly remembering Burlane's instructions, she sank to her knees in the wet grass, ignoring the pain remaining in her shoulder. The dew made the grass about her glisten silver-gray. Shandril slipped the tail of her cloak in front of her and lay down upon it to wait. The unseen sun was brightening the mist, revealing the ground a few paces around her. Wet grass tickled her nose.

Shandril peered intently all around. She had not quite yet escaped death today… and there would be no Elminster to magically rescue her this time, if the twenty warriors saw her, with their treasure and all. She lay very still.

With heart-stopping suddenness, a warrior loomed out of the mist perhaps forty paces away. Another followed, and another, and they looked familiar to Shandril. The men whose names she did not even know were returning, free now of the mage's magic. They came carefully in the wet grass, weapons ready, close together, not speaking.

Shandril tried to keep count. She did not want to creep out behind them only to find others behind her. If she were caught, she thought with a sudden chill, a quick death might be a kind end. Adventure? Aye, adventure.

She tossed her head in silence and counted warriors. Like creeping shadows, they passed in front of her-sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one. Now the mules passed, all loaded with chests and canvas sacks. Shandril counted fifteen before the procession ended. She waited for the space of two long breaths, fearing a rearguard.

Her caution was rewarded when six silent bladesmen stalked into view, looking all about, swords drawn. One seemed to stare at her all the while they passed. Shandril kept still, hoping he would not be too curious or too diligent. He was not. The gods were with her. She drew a trembling breath and waited until she had drawn two more before she eased herself up and crept after them.

The mysterious warriors were heading roughly westward, close to Lake Sember. They were moving rapidly despite their wariness, as people do who still have a long way to travel. An occasional tree loomed up out of the mist as Shandril followed them, cautiously working her way closer on the higher ground and carefully dropping back in wet areas where one slip and splash might bring them all down on her. She was soon soaked and shivering.

So this is what Gorstag meant when he said adventure usually means pain and weariness, both conveniently forgotten later, Shandril thought, recalling a fireside talk. Grinning, she crept closer. She had seldom felt more alert, more alive, more excited. You never told me it was this much fun, she chided Gorstag mentally as she climbed a little rise and dropped to her belly in the tall grass.

It was well she did. The mist rolled away briefly, revealing six warriors, standing just below the brow of the hill on which she lay. Mules were being led up the hill beyond. The land was rising, and the men were taking their treasure west. These must be the rearguard, Shandril reasoned.

Shandril could hear the low mutter of their voices, but could not make out the words. She dared not crawl nearer. Three of them were deliberately peering her way.

The mist began to close in again. They were waiting here, probably planning some sort of trap for anyone following them. It would mean her death to come up over the ridge of the hill, even with the mist. Shandril lay still on the damp ground and thought for a bit. What should she do now?

Without warning, a man loomed up out of the mist no more than two steps away, strode past her with the wet grass whispering around his boots, and was gone, walking back the way she had come. He held a strung bow and a shaft ready in one hand, and wore a long knife at his belt, but no armor. He looked young and bleakly confident. After a moment, another archer followed, and then four more, passing farther away. Shandril gasped in horror. The archers were going back to slay the company!

In her mind she could see arrows leaping one by one from the mists to bring down Delg, Burlane, Rymel, Thail-one by one, convulsed and writhing in the grass, their slayers quickly gone. Any chase would run straight into a storm of arrows.

How to warn the company? Shandril doubted she could get around the archers without being killed. There was only one thing to do, she realized with a sick, sinking feeling. Fun, she reminded herself wryly as she rose out of the grass and turned, drawing Lynxal's blade-her sword now-and went off to war.

She hurried forward as quietly as she could, picturing the faces of her companions as she strolled up to them with dripping blade and tossed two heads at their feet. Her stomach lurched at the thought, and she stared down at the blade, cold and heavy in her hands, with real revulsion.

She looked around in the mist, feeling suddenly lost and helpless. A sharp blade is little comfort when you know you can't use it on anyone. Even less comfort once the anyone realizes that. She stopped for a moment to lean against a gaunt and bare tree. Sheathing her sword carefully, she looked over the tree. The wood was dead but damp; it broke with a dull sound, not the sharp crack she had feared. She held a curved, surprisingly heavy, twisted limb. Shandril hefted it a few times and then stalked on through the mist.

She came upon him quite suddenly. The archer who had passed close to her was now standing alone, bow ready, listening intently. He heard her and half turned. As his eyes met hers and his mouth opened in surprise, Shandril leaped forward, heart pounding, and brought the tree limb down as hard as she could across his throat.

The force of the blow numbed her hands and knocked her off balance. She slipped in the wet grass and slid right beneath him, getting tangled in his legs. He made a horrible gurgling noise, and his knee hit her forehead hard. Dazed, Shandril lay staring up at the mist for a moment, the breath knocked from her hings, her back and bottom aching. Then she heard thudding footsteps.

"Bitch!" a man's voice snarled close by. Shandril rolled to one side and looked up. The other archer was charging at her, a long, gleaming knife drawn up to strike.

Shandril screamed in helpless terror as the knife leaped at her throat, so bright and so quick. She threw up her hands-the tree limb gone, her sword too slow to draw-and tried to jump aside.

Too late. The archer's grasping hand caught her left shoulder as she shifted to the right. The cruel force of his fingers drove her back and spun her sideways. His biting blade stabbed again and again at her shoulder and back. Shandril screamed again at the burning, slicing pain, as they fell together on top of the sprawled body of the first archer. Her shoulder felt wet and cold as the knife slid across it.

The man's angry face was inches from her own. Shandril struggled furiously to avoid his clutching hands and block the knife, clawing, biting, and driving her knees viciously into him. Somehow, she got both hands on his wrist and forced the knife past her, but he was stronger and he pulled it slowly around at her again.

Then the snarling face inches from her own gasped. The eyes darkened, and blood dribbled from the lips. Shandril felt his strength ebb away, and then strong hands lifted the man's weight from her. Through bleary eyes she saw the bright and terrible tip of a blade growing out of a dark, spreading stain on the archer's chest. His head lolled as he was lifted aside.

Anxious faces looked down upon her. Shandril smiled weakly as she met Rymel's eyes, and saw Delg, Thail, and Burlane behind him. She caught a shuddering breath, steadied her shaking hands, and said, "My thanks. I… think these two were… sent back… to slay you all with their arrows… I… had to stop them."

She winced as gentle hands touched her shoulder to raise her. Burlane murmured something comforting as Thail's fingers probed cautiously. The wizard took a flask from his belt with crimson, dripping fingers and said simply, "Drink."

The liquid was thick and clear and slightly sweet. It soothed and refreshed, and a delicious warmth spread from Shandril's stomach. "Thanks."

Her eyes sought Burlane. "I followed them," she said. "They went west… the land rises. Two hills away the rearguard split. Four swordsmen followed up the mules, and these two came back this way to slay any who pursued." She realized with sudden vigor that the pain had subsided, and with it her sick, dizzy feeling. "What was in that vial?"

"A potion," Thail said gently. "Can you walk?" He raised her gently to her feet.

Delg patted her hip and said, "Well done, ladymaid." Shandril looked around at the others: Ferostil, looking relieved as his eyes met hers and saw they were no longer misted in pain, and Rymel, who wordlessly held out to her the knives of the two archers.

"Can you use a bow?" Burlane asked her quietly.

Shandril shook her head, but took the knives and slid one down either boot. Rymel nodded approvingly.

Burlane laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Let us go," he said. "I would have this treasure we've bled for."

There was a general rumble of agreement, and the Company of the Bright Spear strode forward. Shandril looked once over her shoulder at the twisted bodies of the archers before the mist swallowed them. She had killed a man. It had been so quick, frighteningly easy. She stumbled on a clump of grass despite Burlane's arm-and paused in shock. "Shandril?" Burlane asked quietly. "Are you well?"

"I-ah, yes. Yes. Better now." Shandril strode on, trying not to look down at the tunic that clung to her damply. It was dark and glistening with the blood of the man who had nearly slain her. Her skin crawled. She hoped it would not begin to smell too soon.

Far to the east the mist was thinner. Wisps of it curled about Marimmar as the Mage Most Magnificent led his apprentice through old, thickly grown trees. "This way, boy! Just ahead, and you'll lay eyes on what few have seen unless they be elvish for four lifetimes of men, and more! Myth Drannor itself! Who knows what art may wait there for you and me? We could wield magics unseen in these lands for many a long year, boy! What say you?" The pudgy mage fairly trembled with anticipation.

"Ah, Master…" Narm began, looking ahead.

"Aye?"

"Well met, lord of the elves," Narm said hastily, "and lady most fair. I am Narm, apprentice to this Mage Most Magnificent, Marimmar. We seek Myth Drannor."

Marimmar blinked in surprise and beheld a tall, dark-haired male elf who bore both wands and sword at his belt. The elven warrior stood beside a human lady of almost elfin beauty-dark eyes, a gentle mouth, and a slim, exquisite figure-who wore plain dark robes. They stood together in the middle of the old, overgrown trail Marimmar had been following and showed no signs of moving aside, though both wore polite expressions and had nodded courteously at Narm's salutation.

Marimmar cleared his throat noisily. "Ah-well met, as my boy has said. Know you the way to the City of Beauty, good sir?…" The elf smiled thinly.

"Yes, I do, Mage Most Magnificent." His voice, low and musical, was faintly sarcastic. His eyes were very clear.

Narm stared in wonder. This seemed an elven lord like the old tale spoke of.

"However," the elf continued, gently and severely, "I stand here to bar your way to it. Myth Drannor is not a treasure-house. It is today a sacred place to my people, even now that most of my kin have gone from these fair trees. It is also a very dangerous place. Devils have been summoned to the ruined city by evil men. They patrol the forest even now, not far beyond where we stand."

"I am not a babe to be frightened by words, good sir," Marimmar snapped. "We have come far to reach Myth Drannor before it is plundered, its precious magic lost! Stand aside, for I have no quarrel with you, and would not harm you!" Marimmar urged his pony forward.

"Back your mount, mage," the lady said calmly, "for we have no quarrel with it." She stepped forward. "I am Jhessail Silvertree of Shadowdale. This is my husband, Merith Strongbow. We are Knights of Myth Drannor. This is our city, and we bid you politely begone. We have the art to drive you back, Marimmar. Make us wield it at your peril."

Marimmar cleared his throat again. "This is ridiculous! You would tell me where to pass and where not to pass? Me? "

"Nay," Merith mocked the mage's florid speech. "We but inform you of the consequences of your choice in this matter, good mage. Your destiny remains in your hands." He smiled at Narm, who had backed his pony away.

Marimmar looked around and discovered he stood alone. He harrumphed and turned his mount. "Perhaps-ah, there is something to your warnings. I shall direct my quest for knowledge elsewhere for now. But know this! Threats shall not stay me-nor many others, who even now seek this place with far more greedy intent than I-from exploring Myth Drannor, when the opportunity proves more-ah, auspicious. My art may open me a way that you cannot gainsay!"

Merith smiled. "It is said that a man must follow where his foolishness leads," he quoted the old bardic saying mildly.

"Safe journey, Narm and Marimmar both," Jhessail added, her eyes alight with amusement. Narm could see no less than three wands at her belt. Marimmar saw them too and nodded curtly to the knights as he wheeled his pony.

"Until our paths cross again," he said loudly. The Mage Most Magnificent spurred his mount into a canter, tearing past Narm like a whirlwind. His young apprentice turned and saluted the elf and the lady mage with courtesy and a smile, then trotted off in his master's wake.

The two stood and watched them go. "The old one is too much the fool," Jhessail said thoughtfully. "He will turn about and come by another way and meet his doom."

Merith shrugged. "One less arrogant fool to swagger his art, then. He was warned. I hope he doesn't drag the young one down with him."

Jhessail nodded. "If not for the devils and the beasts. Myth Drannor's population would have grown to rival Waterdeep's this past season. Why are these magic-seekers all such idiots?"

Merith grinned at her. "You should know well, my dear, that adventurers and idiots are one and the same."

Jhessail merely looked at him. Merith smiled again and gathered his wife up in an embrace. It was rare for an elf and a human to love so deeply and so simply, without high tragedy. Marimmar would not appreciate this, Jhessail thought with pity. But that young one might…

"Here, then," said the Mage Most Magnificent, a short time later. "I can see towers through the trees… this must be that part of the old city where the mages dwelt." The confident words had scarcely left his mouth before a dark and grinning face rose from the underbrush just ahead. Narm, heart sinking, had not time for even a cry of alarm before the devil leaped, clapped batlike wings, and flew unhesitatingly at them, its fellows also rising dark and sinister from the brush. Marimmar's voice as he babbled a hasty spell quavered in fear. After that one terrible instant of realization, they were fighting for their lives.